Baby Showers

Baby showers mark the divide in women.  If you have a child and are attending a baby shower, you will feel at-ease, included, and sure of yourself.  If you are married, without children and attending a baby shower, you should prepare yourself to answer a lot of questions about the child you are certainly planning to have.  If you are single and attending a baby shower, you should literally just kill yourself.  You will inevitably find yourself navigating around one of three conversation topics: Being Single, Having Babies, Being a Full-Time Mom.

BEING SINGLE 

Just accept it.  Literally everyone is going to ask you about it.  I've developed several scenarios to combat this topic.  I find that some work better than others.

#1 Shock Value Response

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

Me: Nope…just banging strangers.

This one is my favorite but has to be timed appropriately.  It's best used on your way out so that you're not ostracized for the remainder of the party.  Like a rookie, I once dropped this bomb upon arrival and wasn't allowed to hold any babies for the rest of the afternoon for fear that said offspring might contract an STD.  YOU CAN'T GET HERPES FROM TOUCHING YOU IDIOTS!  Ugh…everybody knows that.

#2 Lie     

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

Me: No…I was married but we're going through a divorce.

Robot: What happened?

(I like to cater my answer to elicit the most fear in whoever I'm talking to.  If they're fat, I say my husband left me for a thin person.  If they don't have children, I say he left me because he was eager to start a family.  If they're religious, I say he was gay.  It's awesome.)

#3 Cater

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

 

Me: *hysterical crying*

Sadly but not surprisingly, this scheme works best.  You will immediately be handed a) alcohol b) food and c) hugs.  You will be swarmed by women who want to lift your spirits.  The truth is ‑ they're just so relieved to hear that you don't want to be single.  It's just an unfortunate turn of events which is likely the result of you not meeting the right person.  You will then hear some of the dumbest bullshit that women LOVE to say to one another:

"It must be hard because you're so busy.  You've always been so focused on your career."

"The thing is that you intimidate men!  You're so strong and pretty!"

"Have you tried dating online?  Well I mean I've never done it but I know a girl who met her husband on OK Cupid!"

If none of the above tactics work you just need to pull out the big guns and say you were raped.  I know it sounds crazy but everyone will flee and you'll finally get some God damn peace and quiet. 

HAVING BABIES

If you managed to skirt the Single question, your audience will then move on to children.  The only thing worse in the world than a woman who isn't upset that she's single is a woman who's unclear about whether or not she wants to procreate. If you are in a suburban area, it's in your best interest to simply say you lost your uterus in a car accident and then start weeping. Otherwise, you will be crucified.  The thing that married people will typically discuss with each other after you reveal to them your indifference to childbirth is how you are intensely selfish. That is what people who want to have children always say about people who don't. They just can't believe how selfish you're being.

Other than the Virgin Mary, when has any birth been selfless? Furthermore, I have to imagine that if the Virgin Mary had better access to medical care and abortion was invented, she'd have had a tough decision to make. How in the world is having a baby not totally selfish? You're forcing a person into a world that they have no say in. I'd go so far as to say it's a step above slavery. You own that thing until it's eighteen and as soon as it starts talking, it's expected to pay its own way. It's subtle at first – pick up your toys, please and thank you, and then as the offspring gets older it's straight up drudgery.

Now quite frankly, I don't care if people get married and I certainly don't mind if they have children. I do mind the insinuation that I'm a bad person because I'm not filled with baby and that they're living a spiritual life that doesn't involve birth control or false claims of rape.

FULL-TIME MOM

If you can avoid Single Talk and Baby Talk at a shower, you have one more cross to bear.  The Full-time Mom.  She's my favorite.

Me:  So what do you do for work?

Robot:  Fulltime mom!

Me:  Oh so you don't have a job.

Robot:  Being a mom is my job.

Me:  Do you get a paycheck?

Robot: Well no but let me tell you…I had a job and it was way easier than taking care of three kids.

Me:  I'm sure it was.  Nonetheless, you currently don't have a job.

Robot: You can't imagine how exhausted I am at the end of the day.

Me:  No, I mean…I totally get it.  Being a mom is hard.  I'm just not sure that constitutes a job.  Maybe we could call you a volunteer?

Robot: Fulltime mom!

Me:  So what about moms who have actual jobs…do they have two jobs?

Robot: I don't know.

Me: Could you put "fulltime mom" on a resume?

Robot: No.

Me:  Ok great.  So we've established that you don't have a job.

Robot: BEING A MOM IS MY JOB!

I literally don't understand.  Why try to trick me into thinking that you have a job?  I mean…you totally don't and that's totally cool.  I can see you put a lot of effort into this baby shower (also doesn't constitute a job) and I thank you for this washcloth shaped like a bunny.

Ultimately, I'm not even sure what a baby shower is.  I'm constantly expecting to see the actual baby and instead I'm just glaring at a pregnant broad the whole time.  I find it to be a little bizarre that we're all invited to come watch you not have a baby.  I'm not trying to be a jerk or anything but it's fairly unimpressive.  Why not have the baby and then we can all get together and hear about how you shit your pants during childbirth.  Honest to God, that strikes me as way more interesting than all the topics we're currently stuck with.  Listen…I am single, sans child and employed (actual job) and I don't think I should be judged so harshly.  Take it easy on me, women with babies.  Either that or stop inviting me to your stupid parties where you lie about how there's gonna be a baby there.  Ugh…I fall for it every time.

I'm Bad At Things...

I'm not good at things.  And I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, I'm literally just terrible at all things.  While the general public is good at things like being employed, creating new offspring and not spilling mayonnaise on their pants, I’m attempting to not contract any more obscure liver diseases or purchase cars with my debit card.  I assure you I'm failing on both counts – I'm bad at things.

This belief was solidified by a recent string of auditions.  Much like all other areas of my life, I am failing at acting.  It's like watching a toddler trying to feed itself.  It's messy and disconcerting and elicits a lot of pity, but also a smidge of joy, from curious onlookers.

Let's start last week when I was called in to audition for a new sitcom on Fox.  I was elated!  I knew this was going to be my big break.  I got the script and began to memorize when I noticed something was off.  There was a reference to licking feet and I thought maybe I had missed something.  I had.  Turns out I was auditioning for the role of "transvestite."  IS THIS A JOKE?!  Do you know what that means?  It means the fine people of said Fox sitcom released a description of a transvestite into the ether, my agent then read this malarkey and thought, "Oh my God…we have someone who's perfect" and then submitted my picture.  Fox then agreed that I was indeed transvestite material which brings us to the audition portion of things.

Me: Hi.

Casting Agent:  Can you lower your voice?

Me: Um…I mean…I can but this just in, I'm actually a woman.

CA: Sure, whatever, just talk lower buddy.

I mean…I guess the thing that's most upsetting here is that I didn't get the role and I thought, "HOW DARE THEY!  I AM A GREAT TRANSVESTITE!  I'M BASICALLY A MAN!  I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT ROLE!"

It's complicated and embarrassing.  A few days later, I was called in to audition for a commercial that contained a lot of text.  I'm not sure if you heard but I was a theater major.  Lots of text = no problem.  I spent the day memorizing.  I insisted on reciting my lines to anyone who would listen.  I called everyone I knew and rehearsed my lines into their voicemails.  I. Was. Ready.  When I arrived at the casting agency I looked around at the room of desperate women – women who spend their days counting calories and dodging gluten.  While these women were starving themselves and scouring through racks of half-priced tunics at Ross, I was studying my craft.  I had gusto and sustenance and I thought it a shame that all these bitches had struggled in traffic just to have their asses handed to them by a chubby Midwesterner. 

When I went into my audition, lines ready to go, the casting agent gave me some instructions.

CA: Ok great, so you're going to walk from over here with this bowl and this apple, sit down at this table, address your imaginary daughter, show this card to the camera and smile!

Me: Got it.

CA: Ok…action!

Me While Slowly Ambling Around The Room Like A Deer Caught In The Headlights: Ah ga ga ga ga ga aahhhhh ga gaaa ga ga gaaa ga ga gagaa

CA: *stunned silence*

Me: *horrified expression*

CA: Ok great, we'll let you know.

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN THERE!  I was distraught.  I literally turned actually retarded as soon as I got into the room.  Apparently I'm the type of actor WHO CAN'T HOLD AN APPLE AND SAY WORDS AT THE SAME TIME!

It was demoralizing.  Today was no different when I drove to Santa Monica to audition for the role of "conservative put-together mom."  As you can imagine, this took a lot of work and I was pretty impressed by the results.  As I strutted my stuff down Santa Monica Blvd., I was feeling totally in control.  I was wearing a very cute and conservative dress, my hair was coiffed, my make-up was set, and my pearls were dangling demurely.  I got into the waiting room and smirked – once again, I have outdone myself.  It was at this point that I noticed my ankle was itching.  As I looked down, I realized it was covered in blood – CAUSE I HAD ATTEMPTED TO SHAVE MY LEGS THIS MORNING – LIKE A MOTHER FUCKING LADY! 

AHHHHHHH!  It's pointless.  Some people are just bad at all things.  It's not my fault really.  I mean it's not like I'm not trying!  Sure…maybe it's a sign from God that I should be doing something different with my life.  But I assure you, I've tried!  I can't cook, I'm terrible at being attractive, and I'm horrible at men.  The only areas in which I've ever excelled are sex with strangers and a bevy of narcotics which further proves my point THAT I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT TRANSVESTITE ROLE!  Ugh… 

Dear France:

 

I fucking hate you.  Seriously France, what is your problem?  Listen, I get it….YOU'RE SUPER FIT AND ATTRACTIVE.  Does that make you better than me?  PROBABLY FRANCE!  Paris is a scam France!  It was created solely to make Americans feel badly about themselves.  I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY FRANCE!  I doubt I'll be able to afford anything in your super swanky cities.  God you make me so sick.  TRÈS MALADE FRANCE!  Betcha didn't think I knew how to speak French did you France?  Well I don't!  And I'm sick of you pointing it out!  UGH...STOP BONJOURING ME FRANCE!  Are you too good for Hello?  Is that it?  I know you speak English France and we both know I'm American so why don't you cut me some mother fucking slack. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME FRANCE!  I know you're glaring at me France…THIS IS A CHICAGO BEARS T-SHIRT FRANCE!  GET OVER IT!  I wear clothes that look like pajamas because I can't fit into pants.  I CAN'T FIT INTO PANTS FRANCE!  I bet that makes you real happy doesn't it France.  You sick son of a bitch.  YOU HAVE AN EATING DISORDER FRANCE!  Seriously, get your shit together.  Your accent is stupid France…it's disgusting.  You sound like a fucking idiot so why don't you just cut the crap.  I get it France!  You're super unique and laid-back.  I AM FREAKING OUT OK FRANCE!?  I HAVE A JOB FRANCE!  While you're bulking up on espressos in front of some French-speaking café I AM GOING TO MY MOTHER FUCKING JOB.  Did you get that France?!  Your Marlboro Reds taste like Marlboro Lights France…and that…is fucking…bullshit.  I hate you.  I literally hate you France.  You better watch your mother fucking back. 

Muslims?

So here's what happened.  I got hired to write for this website and it has been taking up all of my time.  In case you care about Muslims or any other things political, you should check it out.  If you click on the tab called Shit People Say, you will see several posts by yours truly.  

As we all know, I care deeply about the Muslims world...YOU GUYS THAT'S A LIE!!!!  I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK A MUSLIM IS!  It was clear that this job would require some research.  To be fair, I had heard about Muslims before and was certain I knew at least a few things about them  – I mean, I'm not totally stupid.

#1 Muslims Hate Jesus.  I was sure of this but decided to research it because I take my job seriously.  You will never believe this but Muslims don’t hate Jesus!  They actually regard him as a prophet.  They just think Muhammad was smarter or something.  I’m gonna be honest.  I stopped reading.  Once I found out that Muslims didn’t hate Jesus I was perplexed because it blew a lot of holes into my next theory.

#2 Muslims Hate Me And Are Trying To Kill Me.  I ran into a lot of trouble on this one because, as it turns out, there is more than one kind of Muslim.  I guess this makes sense seeing as there is more than one kind of Christian but honestly, my mind was blown.  Now I had to categorize the Muslims into a) Muslims that hate me and are trying to kill me and b) other.

#3 My Religion Is Superior To The Muslim Religion.  I was super sure of this one and fully ready to extrapolate when I came to the horrifying realization that I have no idea what religion I am.  I went to call my Grandma and then remembered that she died like three years ago rendering that bitch useless.  Of course then I started to feel bad because I don’t even know if I believe in Heaven or Hell meaning I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE MY DEAD GRANDMA IS!

Ugh…religion is confusing.  I’m determined to find out what a Muslim is.  As of right now I can tell you, unequivocally, that they don’t hate Jesus and they may or may not be with my dead grandma right now.

So anyway, apparently there's an entire section of the world called "The Middle East" and I'm determined to learn more about it.  If you too would like to know why some bitch zillions of miles away is covering herself with a blanket every day, pop over to the other blog.  If blankets scare you but you're dying to know if I'll ever fit into pants, stay right here.  I deeply love everyone.  Thanks for reading!

Eggs

Most women my age are getting to the point where they’re concerned about their eggs.  I’m not sure what it is about female thirty-somethings and eggs but most of the women I know are obsessed with them.  I’ve never put a lot of thought into my eggs.  Mostly the mentioning of them, by other women, just makes me feel bad that I’ve not pondered eggs at all…unless they’re in omelet form…which I think about a lot…because omelets are delicious.  Anyway, what I’m driving at here are children and the possibility of one crawling its way out of my vagina in the future.  Seeing as I’m a thirty-something, it’s probably time for me to figure this out.

I love babies.  Wait…that came out wrong.  What I meant to say is that babies terrify me.  Nope, also inaccurate.  Herein lies my problem.  I don’t know anything about babies.  People seem to have them a lot – I see the pictures on Facebook.  Listen, I’m not trying to be a baby racist or anything but all those mother fuckers look the same.  I’m starting to get concerned because I thought I’d have baby-feelings by now.  Also, from what I understand, babies typically follow a marriage and I’m not having marriage-feelings either.  Instead of being depressed because I’m not married and I’m not filled with baby, I’m depressed because my indifference to such matters makes me feel like less of a woman.

You may be familiar with the American Dream.  Typically it consists of a house, a husband and children.  This all seems lovely, but as of right now my biggest goals are to figure out what Gluten is and to not get holes in my pants.  These goals may not seem particularly lofty to you but I assure you, they’re taking up all of my time.  Today by about noon I was experiencing high self-esteem based on the fact that I didn’t have any holes in my pants.  Moments later, I went to smoke a cig only to realize my pants were see-through.  I CAN’T WIN!  Based on this information, it seems unlikely that a) anyone other than the homeless vagrants downtown would want to marry me and b) I have any of the necessary tools to keep another human being alive.

A friend sent me a plant recently – I killed it.  I haven’t had toilet paper in my apartment for several months.  I view walking without falling down to be a challenge.  Do you believe in God?  I believe he exists but that he is trying to kill me.  With all of these quandaries to sift through, I haven’t had time to mourn my loss of eggs – and lost they are.  I can’t keep a pair of sunglasses for more than three weeks.  God only knows where the fuck my eggs have managed to run off to. 

My point here is that I’m going to try harder to want babies.  My lack of concern surrounding this issue is alienating me from other women – that and my propensity for banging other people’s significant others (Sorry girls!).  I am a woman God damnit!  I should want a baby!  What better way to right all the terrible wrongs I’ve experienced in my life.  My baby is going to be the shit!  My baby will fit into pants!  My baby will be responsible!  My baby will live in an apartment that has rooms!  My baby won’t drive a car manufactured by a company that also makes toasters!  My baby won’t have road rage!  My baby won’t kill plants!  MY BABY WILL BE THE QUARTERBACK FOR THE CHICAGO BEARS!!!!!!!!  Shit…my baby isn’t going to like me at all.

Bathtub Diving

Many years ago, I lived with three men in an apartment that had one bathroom.  In that bathroom was an oversized bathtub.  I believe it was this bathtub that led to the most successful relationship I’ve been party to, thus far.  Enveloped by a sea of bubbles I fell in love – with a couple.   

I like to get drunk and go swimming.  You may view this as a safety hazard – I view it as quirky.  A decade ago, when I still believed in love and the whiskey flowed like cocaine, I used to get drunk and invite people back to my house to “go swimming.”  There were a slew of problems with this scenario.  For starters, I didn’t have a swimming pool.  I did, however, have an oversized bathtub which I found to be wildly exciting and avant-garde.  Furthermore, this bathtub was connected to my roommate’s bedroom and I liked to burst through his room while running and jumping into the tub – “Bathtub Diving,” if you will.   

One evening I invited my co-workers, John and Natasha, to participate in the diving festivities.  We all worked at a nightclub together and had already gotten off of work and closed down a 4am bar.  John and Natasha lived together and had been dating for a while.  They were one of my favorite couples because they never made me feel like a third wheel.  Several hours later, we were swimming in my bathtub.  Several hours after that, I was navigating my way around a vagina.  OH BIG DEAL!  GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE!  Fine, John, Natasha and I had participated in a threesome but I’ll be damned if I let you cheapen this beautiful love story with your sick lesbian fantasies.  WE WERE IN LOVE OK?!  CAN I CONTINUE PLEASE?!  UGH…ANYWAY…

The next morning, John went to work and Natasha and I spent the day chain smoking and watching Lifetime movies.  We had so much fun that we opted to rerun the same scenario that very night…and the night after that…and the night after that.  After a few months, I found myself to be desperately in love with John and Natasha and stopped dating all other people.  If I were at a bar and a man asked for my number, which used to happen ALL THE TIME, I would decline and inform the man that I was in a relationship.  I was monogamous except for the times when I was banging two people simultaneously.  OH PUH-LEASE WOULD YOU LET IT GO?!  YES, I HAVE THREESOMES SOMETIMES.  THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME!  

The problem with me and booze is that I can’t always control what’s going to happen to me after I’ve downed a few Budweiser Tallboys.  A few months into dating John and Natasha, I found myself in a bar (shocking) and I accidentally slept with a stranger.  This was not unlike me, although it did mark the first time I’d cheated on a couple.  The morning after, as I was gathering my belongings, the strange man handed me a key and said, “You live here now.”  I was hesitant but that bed sure was comfortable and if I were actually living there I wouldn’t have to get up – so I didn’t.  Thus began a new relationship.  I broke up with John and Natasha and ended up living with the mystery man for over a year.  (He was nice.  I wonder what ever happened to him…)

In the years since, I’ve never been able to recreate the deep emotional connection that I had with John and Natasha.  The other night I was feeling nostalgic and decided to take a bath.  It was terrible.  For starters, there were no other people in it.  Secondly, it wasn’t positioned in a way that would lend itself to Bathtub Diving.  And thirdly, it didn’t result in me dating a couple – a couple that strived to make love to me concurrently while I waded through bubbles.  WOULD YOU LET IT GO YOU SICK FUCK?!

What Is Wrong With You?

This is a question I’m forced to answer more often than I’d care to admit.  I’ve heard it said that we are often victims of our upbringing and I’ve had to dig deep to remember when it all started.  As I’ve reflected on my childhood, I’ve not been surprised to see that everyone has always been against me since the beginning – specifically my parents and more so my brother…Mitchell Royer…he’s trying to kill me.

It all started when that tyrant was born.  Even as a toddler, I remember thinking that this would not stand.  My parents, Mimi and Jim Royer, kept talking about the new kid who’d be coming around and I was not impressed.  HOW DARE THEY!  I was certain they were replacing me and on the day my mom went into labor, I was shipped off to my grandparents’ house.  REAL FUCKING COOL MIMI!  I SEE THERE’S A NEW ROYER IN TOWN!  I was clearly being banished so I figured I might as well get comfortable.  Out with the old, in with the mother fucking new.

You can imagine my surprise when I was picked up and taken to the hospital to meet my new brother, Mitchell.  What a bullshit name.  My eyes squinted, upon arrival, in an attempt to intimidate the wretched offspring.  He was god damn adorable.  So this is the monster they chose to replace me and now they’re gloating by showing him off?  It was heartless. 

Mimi and Jim Royer, and their master trickery, have always managed to outsmart me.  I’m pretty sure this is called MANIPULATION!  HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW MOTHER FUCKERS?!  GUESS WHO’S BEEN TO THERAPY!?  Ugh…anyway, after a moment of being in the hospital room, I was presented with a gift from the newest and least impressive Royer.  He had gotten me a doll.  I was suspicious but accepted this gift.  Mimi, that sneaky little devil, went on to tell me what a big responsibility being a big sister would be.  She informed me that I would be attending Big Sister classes at The Park District so I could fully come to terms with what my duties were to be.  AH HA!  OH SURE, THIS KID GETS TO LIE AROUND ALL DAY AND BE BREAST-FED AND I HAVE TO GO TO SOME CLASS JUST TO KEEP HIM ALIVE?!  I was furious.  This was worse than being pushed out but what was I supposed to do?!  I had to move forward seeing as I was now single-handedly responsible for this ankle-biting brute. 

As you can see, my parents tricked me and then forced me to raise the only child they’ve ever loved.  It was the beginning of a series of circumstances in which I was royally fucked over by the world-at-large, starting with the people who were supposed to be protecting me.  After Mitchell was born, I was relegated to serfdom.  I would never be able to outshine that masculine son-of-a-bitch.  My grandmother had given birth to three women and when she got a look at Mitchell’s wang she regarded it as a king’s scepter.  I didn’t have a dick and I knew this meant trouble.  What was I to do?  Mitchell was the first male born to a family of bitches and the last thing they were going to be impressed by was my flimsy jaydge.  I was cursed with a vagina.  I had heard that sex denoted power so I attempted to assert this power as soon as I had a chance…in high school…with anyone who was willing.

My four years at Lincoln-Way were debaucherous.  I had been misled!  Abandoned!  Beguiled!  Mitchell was three years younger than me but quick on my heels.  I was a senior when he was a freshman and I was quickly overtaken.  At that point, my high school career consisted of terminal one-night-stands that often resulted in aggressive gossip and pregnancy scares.  Big dick Mitchell rolled in and was immediately Homecoming King as well as a star football player.  My biggest claim to fame had been the etching of my name into several of the boys’ bathrooms.  In my final days of school, I was almost expelled after a dean had found drugs in my purse.  AND GUESS WHOSE DRUGS THEY WERE?!  MITCHELL MOTHER FUCKING ROYER’S! 

To be fair, I was also partaking but I doubt I would have gotten in trouble had I not been forced to carry around a bizzaro bowl that had been crafted out of some sort of extravagant bamboo.  This thing was out-of-control and Mitchell had received it as a gift from one of his many worshipers.  I tried to explain to the deans that this was my brother’s doing but they were not having it.  The real problem here is that I was trying to be masculine, cause clearly that was the solution, but some of my hare-brained girlfriends had forced me to start carrying a purse.  I was able to grasp the idea that you where supposed to fill it with stuff but couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that it then needed to be taken with you everywhere.  I had filled it with my belongings (cigarettes, weed, obscurely constructed bowl) but had forgotten to actually take it with me past the high school commons.  Ultimately, the deans took pity on me seeing as my mother was the principal at a neighboring school.  I was able to graduate but Mimi and Jim thought it was probably time for me to move the fuck out.

They were really fucking tricky about that shit.

Mimi: Honey, we think it’s so great that you want to be an actress.  You should immediately move out.

Me: Um…I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I have a D.U.I. making it virtually impossible for me to actually go anywhere.

Mimi: If you move to the city, you won’t need to drive.

Me: But my leg is broken.  It’s not real easy for me to walk.

Mimi: We’ll buy you some crutches.

Me: It’s just that…

Mimi: Ok love you bye!

That was it.  I got kicked to the curb and Mitchell was left to rule over his people.  If you go into my parents’ house there’s an entire wall dedicated to Mitchell’s football achievements.  It’s covered with ribbons and awards and blown-up pictures of him, in his jersey, on a snowy day, tackling someone less advantaged than him.  In the far corner of this room is a picture of me as an infant.  It represents a time when the world was still filled with hope and possibilities.  I didn’t yet know about penises or alcohol or the necessity to carry a handbag.  I was docile and hopeful and if you look closely…it truly seems…like nothing is wrong with me.